


Begin With a Single Step

by RileyC



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 21:49:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9680378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: All wasnotlost in the battle with Doomsday. There are still consequences to face, however, and Bruce isn't 100% sure he's up for it yet...





	

_All of this glass was a mistake._  Bruce Wayne experiences that epiphany as he watches the car approach and realizes there were few options open to him but to hide and watch in secret.

The car stops and the driver’s side door opens. Head angled for a better look, there’s a pang of surprise as he glimpses Alfred all turned out in his chauffeur’s livery, complete with cap. Bruce can’t remember the last time he’d seen Alfred in the uniform. That Alfred believed this event warranted formal attire made Bruce straighten his tie and glance around for his discarded suit jacket.

What would even be appropriate attire under these circumstances? he wonders in the split second before Alfred holds the car door open and _they_ climb out.

He had readied himself for failure when he’d sent out the tentative feelers, asking if they could meet. He had expected Alfred to relay instructions that he was requested to go fuck himself--although perhaps more politely phrased than that. No other outcome seemed feasible. What is he supposed to do with this? he thinks as Clark Kent and Diana Prince walk up to the house.

Panic rips through him and he longs to escape, to flee. He is vengeance, he is the night--the mantra mocks him, the non-believer who would give all he has in this moment if he __could__  believe in the myth of Batman.

There’s nowhere left to run, no time; they’re at the door, and he scrambles for control, for a mask. As Alfred ushers them inside, one glance tells him Alfred isn’t fooled for a second, that the mask is all cattywampus

He pretends it’s firmly in place all the same. “Thought this was in mothballs,” he says as he taps the sleeve of the chauffeur’s jacket, as smart as it had ever been, not a crease in sight.

“One never knows when the need for cosplay may arise around here,” Alfred replies, voice dry as the Sahara. “Well,” he proceeds with protocol as guarded looks are traded, “I’ll make some tea, shall I?”

He leaves and Bruce fights not to call him back. He can’t do this, not without backup, he thinks. Is it a good sign that he can recognize the irony there?

He is well and truly at a loss for words, though, and neither of them appears inclined to help.

She stands there, solemn and wise, enigmatic as the Sphinx. He can’t liken her to anyone he’s ever known, not even Selina, not even Talia. There’s a goddess in his living room; a woman who was ancient when the Pyramids were young. That would be a lot to get his head around under any circumstances. It’s odd, though, how it helps that she’s wearing white leggings, a pastel pink shirt and espadrilles, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail. He doesn’t even know why he’d thought she would appear, if she appeared at all, armored for battle. Dressed like this, Bruce can almost believe she’s only human. Almost. The image of her soaring through the air, lassoing the monster, going to Superman’s aid to slay Doomsday while he’d stood there on the ground, useless as a pimp in a convent, isn’t going to fade from his memory any time soon.

Bruce hasn’t looked at _him_  yet, not beyond a cursory nod of acknowledgment as Alfred showed them in Now, as Diana nods at him, eyes warm with encouragement, he turns to face the demigod from Kansas, the being he had tried to destroy.

The alien menace is wearing jeans frayed at the cuffs and one knee, and a red sweatshirt that had likely been a brighter shade before it had been washed to its present state of soft and faded comfort. He wasn’t wearing the glasses today, but his hair was extra fluffy.

There wasn’t a mark on him, and maybe it was only a trick of the afternoon light, but he looked like he was glowing.

Something about that flawless fluffiness arouses a grumpy sensibility in Bruce. It’s not that he wants to see Superman--Clark Kent--battered and torn and bloodied. He never wants to see that again. But he’d like some evidence of scars. Would he see them if he looked more closely, if he dared to meet those eyes for more than a split second?

He can’t, though, not quite, not yet. He’s not ready to face the condemnation that will be there, that has to be there.

He did his best to annihilate this man, with words, with actions, with goddamn weapons that nearly did accomplish that task. How can he apologize for that? What could ever make that right?

“I…” He falters, his throat tight, mouth dry, voice sounding rusty as if from long disuse. He pours a glass of water, swallows, tries again. “I don’t know what to say.”

It’s feeble, although certainly true enough. For all that, a tension, like a gathering storm, does begin to dissipate and everyone draws an audible breath.

Bruce clears his throat, ventures further out on a limb that might snap any moment. “There’s nothing I can say that will make amends for my actions.”

Clark Kent looks at him, speaks for the first time. “Well, you’ve got that right.”

He was prepared for that but it still feels like a kick to the solar plexus. That’s the least of what he deserves, of course. And given Clark could just as easily incinerate him on the spot, maybe he can take it for a sign of encouragement.

It is odd, though, how those words carried no heat--of any kind. As Bruce dares to take that closer look, he can’t locate any trace of anger. In fact… In fact, as Bruce looks at him, Clark does the most infuriating thing imaginable. He smiles.

This is no goddamn time for smiles. It irritates Bruce so much, in fact, that he steps closer and calls him on it. “What the hell are you smiling about?”

Clark looks to Diana as if for direction. She shakes her head, her shoulders lifted in an elegant shrug.

It’s Alfred, coming in with a tray, who salvages things. “Master Bruce has the social skills of a reclusive badger, I fear. Bear that in mind.” He ignores the tetchy look Bruce gives him and sets down the tray. There’s tea and coffee, along with plates of finger sandwiches, cake, and pastries. Apparently Alfred expects this meeting to last for awhile.

“Where are our manners, Master Bruce?” Alfred prompts him.

He clears his throat again. “Will you sit down?”

They trade looks again, on a wavelength that excludes him. That stings but he can deal with that. In time, maybe… Maybe. The future is nothing but maybes right now. That gnaws at his need to control everything, to have backup plans for his backup plans.

Consensus reached, Clark and Diana settle on the two chairs and leave the couch to him.

“Alfred, stay. If you would,” Bruce says.

Alfred takes a moment to evaluate the situation, nods. “I’ll pour, shall I?”

Bruce nods back, tries to settle back against the cushions. Comfort eludes him. It should, of course. There _are_ possibilities loaded into all of those what-ifs and maybes. A chance to start again.

Things could have so easily gone the other way, with every possibility annihilated on that battlefield. He thinks about that, can’t quite suppress a shudder, catches Alfred’s eye and gains strength from the encouragement there.

He can do this. He’s the goddamn Batman.

 

 

_A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step._

_\--Laozi_

 


End file.
